The Last Post - The Next Adventure

Hello Readers and Freinds!

Thank you for all of you comments and support!

Before I dare continue teaching there is a book inside of me which I must extract, lest it interfere with my focus on my students.

In order to write I have decided to spend the next two years on the road before coming back to the class.

I hope you will follow my new blog, about the adventure of writing a book and traveling the world: www.rootsofwriting.blogspot.com

I will not say too much here because the first post on the new blog explains it.

Thank you again! I hope to see you all on my new blog.

Frames

The Frames of brick model my perspective.
I see in tones of brownish red, black, tan...
The sky,
the sun as it rises between the high-rises to my east.
I see planes overhead, their dull drone bouncing to and fro,
my frames.
I see the clouds, tinged, shifting;
I see them framed from the heavens,
brought to earth and within seeming reach,
just climb high enough
on a side of the frame.
I see faces of colors and shapes, variety abundant in this great... frame.
A frame of mind... a state of mind... New York.

Contemplations in Emergence: innards

The minutes drift away. And then the hours. The mind lays dormant, heaving sighs of fained exhaustion. The world lies before it, yet it cowers in the corner of its own matter. The tangible mocks it, the metaphysical burns it, the existential laughs at it – as it lies in wait for the spark that can never come.
A broken bone will heal with time, a torn muscle will slowly crawl back to its place, the mind is fickle and too weak to recover, so in its decrepitation it will lie.
The hums of life awaken it at times, a ring, a knock, a chirp… but drowsily will it slip back into its doubtful place – content with its subsistence.
Bogged down by the truths it cannot escape, by its own perceptions of what those truths may be – by its fear of what may become truth.

The spirit burns and cannot sit still. It is alerted to potential life and drains itself of energy before it can be realized. Its so much easier for the spirit, for it dreams, and dreams are happy in their vacuous plane. There is no hard battle with the past, the spirit only sees ahead, it does not bother with books of history and the warnings and lessons contained therein. The spirit flies in rarefied air, the better for to soar, to glide unimpeded into the days that rarely come. It knows its immortality and is not afraid, it knows its omniscience and is content – when cast aside our shell it will, so only lighter will be its flight.

Poor soul, stuck atween the nether and the sky. How to reconcile the dust and the wind? The shadow and the light? It’s wise, the soul, slow moving for the burden of eternity which it carries, yet blind to the emptiness it sees afore it. Connected as it is with all that makes us, as it came and has shifted up to this moment to combine and become what we see and feel, it is useless in its impotent quest to explain what could be. Though it presides as best it can over the pulls of the mind and spirit, it too is not unbiased. It knows the truth we share, the existence of which we are made, and its agenda is all to clear: preserve the flux. Let not the parts inbreed, but shift and change and grow wiser for newly acquired experience.

And so the battle rages and we are left to spectate to our delight, unless of course we make the mistake of becoming aware…

Growing Up

I want to tell you a story. Will you listen?

I want to tell a story that is as much true as it is not, as much about me or you as anyone else.

It’s the story of growing up, which seems is one that has no end. Remember when we would look up and admire and wish to someday become the adults? Do you remember seeing them hold on weary shoulders the weight of our world? How food miraculously appeared on the table, how clothes found their way into the dresser, how the winter nights were bright and warm? It was true, was it not? The baseball gloves came, so did the bikes… not all at once and not every year, but they came. A soccer ball one year, and when we grew a little older, these magicians would produce a photo camera for us to mess with. It may not have been bought new, it certainly was not an SLR, but it allowed you to take pictures and capture the silly moments of your silly life. Do you remember little league? The basketball in winter, the baseball in summer… maybe your cleats were not new, maybe they were not the height of fashion, maybe they weren’t cleats at all, but play on the grass you did and you did not whine that it was slippery did you? You did not care whether it was the right gear. You cared that you were on a field and that at some point a ball would come hurling towards you, and no matter the sun, rain or fear of embarrassment, you were going to catch that ball! Maybe the family would be watching, maybe they would not be there, but catch that ball you must!

They can’t always be there, they’re adults, they have places to go, things to do, money to make – how else will we get the basketball we always wanted? Everything they do is so important, they can’t even take naps! They might pass out on the couch in front of the TV after dinner on Friday night. But they can’t just take a nap whenever they want. Perhaps they want to go to a show, or to a fancy dinner… whatever those grownups like to do. But they don’t go too often, do they? Who will watch you? Who will feed you? If they spend that money on dinner, how can they take you to the lake this summer? Who has the strength to get all dolled up and drive into the city anyway? By the time they get home and shower and change and feed you and make sure you start on your homework and remind you to finish it and not watch too much TV and brush your teeth… what play starts, what restaurant serves food, that late? Can you blame them if they yell, get upset over little things, punish you in unreasonable ways for actions you thought rather reasonable indeed? Can you blame them for being upset at the quality of the food they eat, when all they can smell is the grease from the industrial coffee machines they’ve been fixing, or from the saturating odor of the pizza they have been delivering, or the dry cleaning chemicals they have been sweeping, or the floor wax they spent hours buffing? Can you blame them for not having much to say to you, when they see the privilege in which you live, of which you are unaware, the method by which you attained it inconsequential and irrelevant to you? When they gave it all up, when they turned piles of pennies into dinners, when they forwent their own happiness for your sake… can we blame them at all?

Adults. Grownups. Responsibility. Consistency. Sacrifice. Selflessness. Are these words not alien to us now? How many years do we spend bobbing up and down the sea of “possibility”; no anchor, sorry, we forgot it in our parents basement. The fabric of society is not so relevant, only our happiness, our quest to “find ourselves”, is what matters. Try this – fail. Try that – fail. Go back to school. Can’t find a job? No problem. Try again, and again, and again. Fail, fail, fail. Why?

Because there are no consequences when we fail. We live in a cushion, in the center lane, in the warmth of the encompassing hearth. 30 year old children who spend freely, get hussied up, give ourselves away, expect little if nothing at all from others, uproot as easily as we switch jobs, careers, partners, images, styles. Slaves to our own desires and inconsistencies; fickle like a plastic bag in the wind.

Graduation: A Masters Degree... to what end?

Any sort of “wrapping up” is bittersweet – with accomplishments comes reflection, and with it, inevitably, come doubt, regret, relief and even a little joy. What is interesting is that joy is not the most prevalent, nor long lasting of the emotions. There is a satisfaction that comes with people speaking to you about your potential and accomplishments, with hearing your school called – rising and donning your masters hood, with hearing your name (mispronounced) and receiving a fake scroll in front of family, friends and colleagues. But as quickly as it comes, so it lives up to its ephemeral nature. With cap and gown and hood returned the world re-dawns its truths upon your brow, causing it to knot from the effort of sustaining such thoughts as: now that I owe so much money, how will I pay it back? What if I can’t get hired? What if I am unable to live up to the expectation that my degree creates? Should I continue on and get my doctorate? Why? To what end?
These are the bombarding thoughts, relentless and tireless in their attack upon much earned serenity. But they live in reality, whereas satisfaction only lives in our minds. What’s worse is that for so many of us who have worked so hard for two years earning this degree, especially while teaching full time in some of the neediest schools in the country, thoughts of whether to even continue teaching are so prevalent as to become overwhelming. Low pay, a thankless job (beside the incredible satisfaction of changing lives), the constant worry of being laid-off because of stupid seniority in a union that does little more than take your money and give you insurance, the unreasonable (and not for the benefit of the students) requirements mandated by the state in the form of tests that show us nothing of the student and everything of the corruption of our psyche as a country (that has allowed the greatest nation in the world to have a system of education on the level of third world countries).
This isn’t what I want to think about.
When I started two years ago I was sure I had found my calling, I was sure I would not have to look for a job again, I was sure that if I sacrificed financial security I would be rewarded with incomparable satisfaction of having every day be more valuable than the previous. I was wrong. Now I am interviewing with schools (outside the DOE!!), with the hope that they have the autonomy to allow us (teachers) to do what is right for the kids, not what is right for some ledger in Albany.
What do I tell my students of the value of a Masters Degree, or, god forbid, a bachelors?

-Mr. A.M.T M.S.,Ed

Teaching: Failure?

The blank page stares back, the rain rattles on the window, the city hums and wails… the mind wonders. What truths can be spoken about a life so fleeting? What truth can remain for more than an instant?

The lives of specks, inconsequential, to be sure, are yet the consummation of our thoughts. I of you, they of me, we of each other, but to what end?

I stare at the specks before me, and they seem so much more, so profound, and in great need, and I lose sight of the non-existent end. Somehow they transform their own inconsequential existence to one of such gravity that I have but no choice at all other than to devote my every thought to them.

How amazing are love and dependence?! How they profoundly transform a man’s philosophy and outlook in an instant, and alter one’s behavior more severely than paralysis itself!

These specks! Scholars still possessed of youth. Toughened by the world and it’s reality, yet still possessive of that tender innocence that melts the anger in my eye, the frustration in my mind, and inspires such sympathy in my soul. From where my vision comes I am still not sure, but I see through the vulgarity, insolence, malice, laziness and hostility. I see the attention starved, the guidance deprived, babes who yearn to suckle for but another moment in the warmth and shelter of their mothers bosom – who perhaps yearn unconsciously, never having spent a moment there… ever.

The question then arises to what degree has their potential been squandered, at what point can the human spirit no longer possess the strength to learn and soar? Which are my failings, and which are those of their parents?
How can I Know?
At the end of the day, at the end of the week – what more could I have done?

What more could anyone have done?

How long can a teacher live with the sense of failure - not knowing it’s cause?

I have Tasted Freedom

I have tasted freedom. It came upon me, engulfed me and rushed past – yet never letting go. There is something of the romantic in riding a motorcycle, something of a century past where a trusty steed and your word were all that you needed (and perhaps a sword). Unlike a carriage, or a car, a horse signifies independence and control. Every one of your steps, indeed, your destiny, is for you to do with as you please. You are exposed to the elements and are thus a part of them – the grander scheme, the Tao if you will. The rush of the wind, the chill on your chin, the soreness of your hands, the funny walk after a ride with too few breaks, the hint of sweat from the non-stop extra dose of adrenaline… But what more, is the life you carry behind you at times – this life entirely dependent on you, like a child, subject to your whims and your desires, to your risks and your mistakes. And then you too become the plaything, as fears are withdrawn and eliminated, contemplations eased and dissolved; the road takes, and gives little in return, but I am thankful for it because so often it is not what we need, but what we have and must expel, that renders us whole.

Lessons: Part 1

Like so many who came afore me, entered I into the city,
full of dreams, yet full of pity.
We came to this great huddled mass,
of buildings – tall, made of steel and glass,
We came to hide, to seek, to plunder,
but came out only hurt and somber.


There is an idea that New York, because of the sheer mass of people that it contains, is a place where one can come to be accepted. The fallacy, dear seeker, is that we, who seek, come for the acceptance of others, when really, it is we who do not accept ourselves. With open heart and open mind we come to this great city and wait… we wait for the doors to open, for the friends to be made, for our life to begin. We do not wait idly, we encourage the process by going out to bars and clubs and social events, we drink and we smoke and we pretend. And yet.

Our lives undulate from success to failure, from that sought after acceptance to disappointment (often with ourselves, but aptly under the guise of scorn for the so-called falsehood of society). We seek validation on social networking sites. How many friends do I have? How many people, to whom I have not spoken in years, will post a happy birthday message on my wall? Who will RSVP my upcoming show? Who will actually show up?

In this, the grandest of cities, the modern Rome, we find the true testament to human insecurity. There is no place, other than L.A., where we parade with pomp and much circumstance to the beat of the unseen puppeteer. Little do we know that WE are in fact the puppeteer. That it is our mutual disdain and insecurity which creates the very society into which we so desperately try to fit, yet are somehow always left on its fringes.


What can I say to the student who wishes to find success in a world where he/she is setting up the very circumstances that will lead to failure? I will say:

Do not play the game, because winning is ephemeral. Create your own and let others play if they wish, just know that it is your own and you determine what is success.

The Choice

One day you wake and see the world,
The past seems strange – like one big blur.
The light and sharpness hurts your eyes,
You squint at first – avoid the light.
But you must try,
Must try and see,
The truth as it is –
Your reality.
One day, however, you will find,
That what you’ve tried so hard to see – the light,
Is not, in fact, the light at all,
Only a reflection
Only a suggestion
Only an illusion
And it has left you there to fall.
You will, like all, struggle to make sense,
You will, like all, try to find your place,
But that search will go without reward –
because you’ll look to the world Instead of your soul.




We all have a duty,
And so I have mine,
To give you a map
So your place you can find.
It’s easy, it is!
To lose your way,
It’s easy to do
when you travel all day.
When the sun burns
Your eyes
When the road burns
Your feet
When the wind burns
Your skin
And you forget
Where you’ve been:
Don’t turn your head
Keep fast your eyes
As you keep walking
Remember these rhymes:
Though I live in this place, where in shadows I walk,
Where it’s tough and its dirty and to no one I can talk,
I am in fact here, I’ve made it so far,
no one can remove my desire, nor can they this scar,
Left by the care into which I was born;
when I wasn’t inquired, when I wasn’t inspired,
when I made that first choice, and have made it again –
every day that I live – that defines who I am.

Waking Up in the Dark

It’s hard to wake up in the darkness. I never seem to be able to avoid it though; whether it’s the beginning or end of the year when the sun rises earlier, or the dreary middle, in January, when it accompanies our day for a short while. By the time I get to school the sun has yet to fully clear the towers, so my walk, like my breakfast is in the shadows. The windows of my classroom are narrow and are directly below an overhang – the next floor up extends some 10 feet beyond my windows, completely blocking any direct light. I say good morning to the few students already in the halls.. Some couples sit on windowsills in the hallway, kissing and hugging and talking in hushed voices about things more wonderful than school or temporary housing. Some sit alone in chairs or on the floor, listening to music or staring off into space. I hesitate for a split second before I put my key in the door… twist, push, and flip the two switches of the florescent lights which will serve to replicate daylight for the next 12-14 hours.

Though classes start at 8:20am, by 7:30 there are some students already about; from then on, every few minutes more and more enter the building, the hush is slowly replaced by a roar, the volume going up and down as some open the door to enter my classroom. Some are in my first period class, others just come to say hello, talk or borrow a book.

Maybe I should have been a librarian – I get so giddy when a student asks me for a book!

Perhaps I am a librarian to some degree, my class has more books than most others in the school combined, but the flow is not as rapid as I would like, they still don’t read as much as they should – they don’t see that so many answers to their questions lay between the covers on my shelves. I tell them, I don’t know the answers, all I know is what I’ve lived and what I’ve read. But they rather listen to me or watch a movie. It’s hard to think of oneself as old-fashioned, especially when one is only 28, but I don’t see how they can read a book on their cellphone. Where is the joy of flipping a page? That sense of movement as you near the middle and then start the descent towards the end of the book -when your grip has to change to accommodate for the distribution of pages – suddenly heavy on the left side. How can you feel the churning in your stomach as you see that there are but few pages left and you don’t want the story to end, when there are no pages?. But with a cell phone, or a kindle, or a computer, or an i-pad… they may as well be instructions on how to set up your plasma TV.

I try to instill in them my love for the book, but I am often left questioning my purpose. Is it my job to try to ground them in what may become the obsolete past? Should I focus on preparing them for the world as it will inevitably be? Or try to instill in them the qualities and perspectives that would possibly keep the world from changing so fast, and in such a de-personalizing and degrading way? But for someof my students, neither is of much consequence.

The day has now ended, and even the after-school programs have ended. In the damp and darkness of a New York winter 5pm seems so late already, yet I won’t be leaving for hours yet to come. I step outside my hole, to perhaps to have a walk down the hallway, or a stretch, but mostly to see who is still around –to convince myself that I am not yet left alone. Most students are by now gone, yet some linger still – practicing a dance for an upcoming show, chatting with friends, avoiding going home, or just aimlessly sprawled on the couch in front of my door.

Though my students know that I speak Spanish, I think they often forget and continue on their way, babbling about nonsense or which teachers they like, or which boys or girls they like. Today however the three on the couch were babbling about how Isabel is pregnant - again. She is a heavier set girl from the Dominican, 18 years old, the mother of a 5 year old, and now, with another on the way. She doesn’t seem fazed, her friends are happy for her, her family thinks it is but another blessing. I stand there staring at her, her almond eyes – blank and careless. Those eyes and her refusal to speak English serve as giant “fuck you’s” to those who have tried to help her. I try to be nonchalant, I ask her when it’s due, how is she feeling… she just laughs and continues to stuff her face with her third bag of potato chips.

-Que lo que mister?

“Mister”. The extent of her English for the majority of our conversations.

-Nothing, I just want to make sure you are doing alright. Do you know whether you want to keep the baby?

- claro! Offcourse!

- I hope you can stay in school… do you want to stay in school?

- siii

- who will take care of the baby while you’re in school?

- si, mi madre.

- are you sure? Did you ask her?

- offcourse. Mi madre…

- Isabel! English!

- mai moder… she take care of da baby.

- where is your first child?

- wit mai moder…

- oh. I see. That’s good. And she wants another one?

- siii

-well, at least you will get to stay in school. You are very lucky to have such a mother…

It is hard not to feel little when you are met with indifference. I may be the teacher, I may have lived a life I would not wish on my enemies, I may be older and an authority figure with experience – but she just doesn’t give a damn. My help is not for her.

They know I care, they know I am always available to talk or to help or something… and it may mean something to them; perhaps it makes them feel good that there is someone there, but they don’t show it and they live by their own idea about what is right or wrong.

I want to shake her! I want to tell her plainly and honestly how having another baby will destroy even more opportunities for her, how it will set her up to be dependent on social service or some man who will or will not treat her and her kids with love and respect. I want her to see… to see what? My vision of what a successful and happy life is? My white, middle-class, feminist, male perspective of success in 21st century America? And then I think, maybe her having a second child is like me pushing books on my kids, maybe it’s her way of not conforming to what modern society has deemed the right thing to do for someone her age living in the states.

It’s dark again when I step outside the school and start the slushy 5 block walk to the subway. There are days when I don’t see the light at all. It’s hard – waking up in the dark.

Brain

Afore, it shook and rattled.
Hard.

Then danced hereto and fro.
It soared above, so high
It crashed so deep below.

Hard.

Again it climbed,
Again it fell,
Again it rose,
Under this spell.

Upon its last and final decent,
Or so for that it was surely meant,
It dove below the recess,
It sought out the abyss,
Its foundation disintegrated,
For it death, became sought-after bliss.

The muck through which it raked was fetid,
It could not move,
No longer could it fly,
It struggled daily to survive,
But in the muck it so did lie.

Sometimes the sun would peek for
It,
Sometimes it wouldn’t for days.
Sometimes it lay there covered in its own shit,
Staid in the darkness – sans the golden rays.

At last arise it did, to at least the surface dwelling,
Of flight it was no longer able,
It sought to only stay above – and stable.

But roads no longer lay there straight,
They shook again and often diverged.
As it followed one, soon it discovered it was on another.

And so in circles did it go,
From here to there, from to to fro,
But they had not the semblance of the circle
The roads,
They did not even lead back to the beginning,
But further from the surface – yet no higher.

Every first step was bound to be the last,
And so the world did stop,
As it rushed quickly past.

Falling Behind - Notes from the Blacktop

Falling behind

The road falls away,
As do the trees and fields, the clouds
And sky.

Life falls slowly behind,
As the rush comes,
So it falls behind.

Colors pass and blur – they fall away,
Focus remains ahead,
Regardless of the beauty passed,
No matter what has fallen behind,
The focus lies ahead,
The road – the twists and turns
Always look ahead.

More beauty ahead,
Always more than behind,
Colors change again – shapes morph
As they fall behind.
Mountains come and go,
Streams and lakes,
Oceans and beaches,
Farms come before they come,
And pass…
But the road remains.

The road may not always be smooth,
It may be slick from oil,
Wet from rain,
Dirty,
Pot-hole ridden,
Bumpy,
Cracked,
But it is still the road,
and life is better with one than
without.

A Teachers Role?

Forethought: I feel like Doogie Howser for some reason… not in the really smart way, just in the sitting in front of a computer typing out shit that happened way.

I was further confirmed in my doubt in wanting to have children when I learned that our Chancellor of schools resigned, and the woman who took his place not only has no experience working in or with schools, but has never been to a public school (nor have her children).

I am trying to picture a school system in which teachers are mandated to do things in the class based not on what is actually best for students, but rather based on what some business oriented calculating machine has determined will best serve the numbers they have to present to some government agency so that they can get more money and buy more glitzy stuff for a school that doesn’t need anything but well trained and caring teachers. I am quite certain that a school does not need HD cameras, I am equally certain that it needs a teacher who will carefully plan a lesson in such a way so as to maximize comprehension and retention of the material presented so that students may go forth with the ability to think and apply this skill to whatever field they choose to pursue. A school does not need flat screen TV’s, however it does need up to date history and science books, modern laboratories, art and music class, and English teachers who understand good grammar and inspire children to read great stories, not just those that are instantly relatable and ultimately worthless.

Our greatest statement of disrespect to ourselves and our world is the state of our public schools – particularly those in NYC.

Teachers and Students

On the first day of school, i told my class of 20 students, that there are 21 students in this classroom; I then asked them how many teachers they thought are in the class, and thankfully one student said: “21”.

They were not all sure, not totally convinced of what this crazy teacher with crazy hair was telling them; but as the days marched on they began to witness as my eyes light up at hearing their insight; their own eyes so too lit up when they heard me exclaim what I had just learned – from them!

There is an unfortunate immaturity which possess students, be they 14 or 20, as they enter a high school. There is a sense of safety, especially when there is a good and comfortable environment, which allows their maturity to melt away as they see fit to whine and complain and beg for pity (no words needed). With this constant façade it is easy to forget that underneath lie intelligent human beings, ones who have lived great tales of tragedy and hope and despair and survival and perseverance. These teachers of mine, of ours, fumble like idiot savants through the labyrinth of human interaction and at the moments when they are needed most to snap out of their forced idiocy – there is silence and nothing but their voice, as it speaks the truth and the nature of our reality, is heard penetrating my own concept of truth, my own perception of reality.

For this I thank them; by this I am reminded why I teach.

ADD

The fade is slow.

Not all at once do the lights dim, does the mist envelope.

But slowly.

Clarity is within reach, a work accomplished.

But it fades.

It starts so strong, so crisp – the vision.

It blurs, slowly.

To save the moment, the effort, in come lights!

Bright, all.

They illuminate, they confuse, so bright, and so many, and all at once.

No fade, it blurs.

Decay, the signals meant to drive, the spark is mellow.

Strength fades.

Perception, ability to stay up there, above the mist.

Mist.

Tingling all over, synapse fail, motion fading – perceived, but not seen.

Motionless.

All is left of the lights, is but one.

It faded slowly, but it did.

Stimulus – doubt – necessity – fade – stimulus – directions: too many –

Motionless.

Reading, Books, Reflection

Perhaps a not too uncommon moment in a New York apartment: sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the paper, looking out the window over modest backyards, into dozens of windows and up at a crystal blue sky that can only come from a constant wind. In that moment, when you set the magazine down, the cup half way up to your lips, you look out the window – that narrowed perspective of where you are and who you are – and wonder what you need to happen to have it all make sense, what do you need to accomplish to become content with your life and your window.

I saw the event quite clearly: I held up a piece of paper, I’m not sure from where it came and where it belonged, but I know that I did not print it. On this piece of paper, which was printed by someone else for the potential viewing by someone other than me or the printer, were words which I had written. In an era were everyone screams of the death of the printed word, for an author, or an aspiring one, there is still nothing more validating or satisfying than seeing their words published – not on a website or e-zine or blog – but in a book or journal or newspaper. There is nothing irrelevant about a medium which still functions as the true sign of legitimacy. Tears came to my eyes at the mere thought of seeing my words printed; a sense of longing pride to be able to show my students, my family and friends something quite tangible, something with which you could sit at the table with a cup of coffee.

These thoughts came not only because I happen to be reading Time and drinking a cup of coffee while looking out my kitchen window – the night before I spent reading surveys I took of my students on various topics, including whether and what they like to read. There were too many who said that they did not like to read, and even more who indicated that they like spending time on the computer (playing games and such). My heart sank every time I read those words. I began imagining a world where no books were held in hand, where information was digested for what sake I could not define. In this world literature ceased to function as an enricher of lives, an expander of thoughts, as an addition to our own meager experience, as the fuel for our imagination. In this world people read what they needed, and subsequently human interaction dissolved to only what was needed – the bonds that bind us as a species slowly dissolved to a cold co-existence.

Books cannot exist only for the literary of heart and mind – because if they live only for us they will lose the heart of their function – as edifiers of humanity. And we cannot fear teaching “classics”! if students read only what is easily engaging and all about “their lives” then from where will come the growth of experience of great worldly characters? If my Dominican students only read books about Dominican teens, how will they ever become more than just Dominican teens (and adults)? How will they become human beings, Men and Women of and for this world?

Fear that we will create a culture-less bog of indifference! As our lives become less and less our own, fear with whom, of what quality person, we will be forced to share our existence. And if you so do, then serve to abate this disintegration – read. Not something that can be edited by a hacker or imbecile at any moment, but something that has been created and cannot be undone. Even if it’s wrong, let us learn from how wrong it is, but let us see that this wrong too deserves our study and concentration.

Scotland

Deep soggy grass tinted with violet heather, burgundy stalks of trumpet flowers;
The wind incessant, clouds of all types and shapes and heights,
Sandy beach, rocky beach, shale and slate – cliffs.
The slow pace of everything else, as if resisting the winds drive;
Cattle and sheep, northern apples and blackberries;
Everything grows and moves slowly – like the rocks, ancient, glacier carved,
On which people have tramped long before we built walls – though they too still stand.
The wind blows thoughts, one after another, and then all the way through till none more are left,
It’s sweet like peat, salty like the sea, crisp from the mountains, wet from the rain.
A friendly wave while passing, single lane, a tale or two as answers to a simple query,
A hint, a shake, a friendly notice of the weather, and isn’t it a lovely day?
It’s glorious indeed!
A nice day for a walk, I think it will be rather fine still later.
The city’s grip releases, it can’t hold out against the wind,
A smile comes easy and the rush dispels and you don’t mind letting someone pass,
On the street, or on the road, or on the beach, or in a store,
It doesn’t really matter from where you came, you’re drawn to share a dram or pint,
Perhaps a story from some time long gone - of dreams differed or just now realized.
The doors aren’t locked, at night you wonder freely, it’s a bit too simple to consider the alternative,
Beyond the due considerations of those tied to the land and it’s glories – it’s our field, it’s our bay –
We drink from the same stream, be it as whiskey, beer or tea.

This Too Shall Pass

i am here again and it is bittersweet. it seems i always come here when there is a great calamity afoot in my life.

here is so much family and the accompanying joy of seeing them, subsequently followed by the pangs of having to leave them knowing that it will be years again before i see them. here is my father, who i met only 8 years ago - the answer to many of my questions about myself (between him and what i am told and see in pictures of my grand father). But these times are always underscored by the pangs of longing afore i even leave, and the dwelling on years lost without his presence, the years lost with my step-dad and the relationship we never had. I am reminded of the grand father who survived 5 concentration camps, was hailed as a hero for the hundreds of lives he saved while there, who wrote a book and started a foundation for survivors... the grandfather it was my destiny never to meet. the sight of an aunt who resembles my grandmother, now gone, and her last few years in a myopic state of reality.

the ever present doubt about faith in anything, and the ever growing hatred for religion; here in the land of Muslims, Christians and Jews, with churches and synagogues and mosques and plaques and monuments and flags - all standing for one thing: death. Founded for the purposes of control, used as a call to murder, organized to exploit the monies of the mostly poor and wretched. Three quarreling mobs screaming of their righteousness and access to god, each the true faith, the true path, each trying desperately to convince you of the better life to come so long as you endure your place and fund their wars and luxuries.

the loneliness in which i always end up finding myself for at least a week of every trip. wandering the streets obsessed with thoughts of the disintegrating life back home, jealous of those who are in the company of others, yet glad to not be the "tourist".

some new horizon always awaits me at home, this time it is a new school. With my first year of teaching under my belt, a year spent in misery because the acceptance of my students and colleagues is to hold no candle to the power wielded by a principal over your very desire to live. Now i find myself looking with excitement to the coming year - new students, new colleagues, new boss, new venue... mistakes made and learned from, ideas for the future, a year of grad school under my belt...

calamities we all have enough that of other's we need not hear... one though, that I think many people share is the dependency on NYC. Oh, the needle in my vain the width of a subway track! It is dirty and far from nature, it is expensive and ridden with difficulties... yet the more i imagine living elsewhere the more it hurts to discover that it may not be possible. Time will tell.

"This too shall pass"

Shasta - Round II

Shasta, round II

The coldest night of my life was spent at 10,500ft at Helen Lake on Mt. Shasta 3 years ago; the second coldest night of my life was spent… you guessed it! Mt. Shasta 2 weeks ago.

2 of the 5 moments that I have come closest to heat stroke were… on Mt. Shasta.

The closest I have come to frostbite (real frostbite, the kind that calls for amputation): on Mt. Shasta.

The two most poignant moments of realization that I am not in the shape in which I should be were on: Mt. Shasta


This has all brought to mind the volumes I have read on mountaineering, specifically in the Himalaya. I love the mountains! The air, the grandeur, the challenge, the vista, the history, the isolation, the camaraderie… they are all reasons to live in the mountains, let alone occasionally climb them. But at what cost do these moments and sensations come? Is that cost too high? Where is the middle ground?

I don’t know if I have ever before questioned my love and pursuit of the mountains, and now that I have, I am afraid what the answer might be and what it might mean.

I know for sure that I don’t want to have to live in a tent for (potentially) months, just waiting for the weather to be right; pissing in a bottle in the tent because leaving would mean my piss would freeze to my member upon release; having no appetite but needing to eat because I need every ounce of strength to survive, not to mention summit; having to somehow hide from the sun during the day, a sun that can give you a 3rd degree burn within an hour; staying warm in an environment which constantly lives below zero, with winds strong enough to blow you right off the face of the mountain; the constant headache and nausea which comes as a result of air too thin to sustain you for any prolonged period of time; the incredibly draining hiking and climbing where you are drenched with sweat while you move, freeze almost instantly when you stop, where there is no joy, only fear of falling in a crevasse or slipping off an icefall or ridge… only to stand on a summit for a few brief moments of ecstasy (moments inevitably cut short by the lack of oxygen, howling winds, and quickly freezing body).

Granted all of this is mostly descriptive of the Himalaya and Denali, but the extremes that we went through on Shasta, which is only 14,100ft, were enough for me to question my part in this endeavor. What is making me doubt my doubts is that I was very much out of shape which made the basic action of walking up slope with thin air a difficult task. But I am reminiscent of my thoughts during the ascent, and I was not miserable, I did not hate the fact that I was there and that what I was doing was hard – no, I was simply short of breath (with every two steps). I think what made the experience tough was the extreme heat of the day and freezing cold of the night; the lack of water; the lack of proper gear… so if I were better prepared would it have been different? Maybe. If I were warmer at night, if we had a better way of cooking, if I could figure out how to mitigate the heat of the day; if I were in better cardio-vascular shape – then perhaps it would have been more joyous.

I’m pretty sure that the experience of Everest is not for me, but I don’t think I can eliminate, as of yet, the rest of the worlds high country.

The experiment shall continue.

What A Ride!

My Teachers, My Students. This is about half of them.


What a ride!!

Sometimes I was the driver, other times the passenger, at no time was it a smooth and easy glide over freshly laid blacktop.

The kids took me for a ride, as did grad school, and the admin, and TFA, and even I.

Here are some things I learned:

The principal is right. Always. Regardless of sense, logic, justice or reality; the principal is right and I am wrong. Even when I am right, the principal is the one who is actually right, and I, I am still wrong (to have thought I was right).

Students today are not the students who were my classmates, neither is the world into which they are headed the same as it was for us– this means that what was true for me, or for the generation before, is not true for them. In fact, all things considered, we don’t want it to be true for them; the truth has perpetuated an unjust society, and to change and grow as a people, so must our truth change and grow.
People need second, and third, and forth chances. It doesn’t matter how many times they screw up, we, as teachers, must be patient and must keep offering ourselves and the world to the student. Because as long as they are in our hands we must do everything, everything, to keep them on or get them on track. And even if they continue to make mistakes for years to come – there will come a day when they will open their eyes, and see our faces and hear our voices, their teachers, and things will suddenly come together. But if we say that the fifth chance is the last straw and screw them and they are on their own, then we undermine our own future as much as our students.

Time is to be managed, otherwise it will manage you (not unlike soviet Russia).

Holding expectations across cultures, races, generations and socio-economic status is ridiculous. I don’t give a damn what TFA or anyone else says. I would never propose that we hold lower expectations for minorities or the poor or disenfranchised, but we can not, not if we want actual results, approach everyone as if they were white middle-class folks from Michigan. It doesn’t make sense – for anybody. This goes back to truth. This goes back to genes, and history, and social infrastructure. If we expect a people who have been controlled their entire lives, denied basic human rights and forcefully marginalized to behave and react the same as those who for hundreds and hundreds of years have had the path of educations and entitlement drilled into them, then we shall continue to spin our tires aimlessly in the mud, and the achievement gap will deepen, inadvertently, but it will deepen. The language of power, the behavior of power, the dress of power, the thinking of power in this country is no less narrow than it was 400 years ago – we just mask it much better – we got better PR for it. If the life path of a protestant, middle-class male is full of more ease, opportunity and choice than it is for anyone who does not fit even one of the aforementioned traits, then we are the same slave holding, religiously intolerant, oppressive and oppressed, single minded, reactionary, entitled, self righteous fucks who annihilated the Natives, who enslaved a people, who exploited the land and the human as easily as the beast. And I don’t give a damn how many hybrid cars we drive and how many black presidents we have.

The new world starts and ends in the classroom; with the teacher; with the decisions we make about how we teach our kids to see, criticize and build the world; and with the opportunities we provide them for applying what they learned.

Finally, I learned – more so I was reaffirmed – that I know so very little. As well as I can speak on the hundreds of topics about which I am somewhat informed, or recall the lessons of the books I have read, or synthesize learned knowledge with experience and intuition: it amounts to nothing at all because it seems for every bit I know, I don’t know a hundred other bits, and the more I see what must be considered, I realize how I am not capable of considering even half, especially not as fast as one must consider things when dealing with people – specifically adolescent students. But I love what I do, and damn-it I’m just going to do the best I can.